was
her right. Ruth had answered little, but she had ridden very thoughtful;
there was that in the past she found it hard to forgive Wilding. And yet
she would now have welcomed an opportunity of thanking him for what he
had done, of expressing to him something of the respect he had won
in her eyes by his act of selfdenunciation to save her brother. This
chance, it seemed, was given her, for there he stood, with head bared
before her; and already she thought no longer of seizing the chance,
vexed as she was at having been surprised into a betrayal of feelings
whose warmth she had until that moment scarce estimated.

In answer to her cry of "You have eluded them!" he waved a hand towards
the rising ground and the road to Bridgwater.

"They passed that way but a few moments since," said he, "and by the
rate at which they were travelling they should be nearing Newton by now.
In their great haste to catch me they could not pause to look for me so
close at hand," he added with a smile, "and for that I am thankful."

She sat her horse and answered nothing, which threw her cousin out of
all patience with her. "Come, Jerry," Diana called to the groom. "We
will walk our horses up the hill."

"You are very good, madam," said Mr. Wilding, and he bowed to the
withers of his roan.

Ruth said nothing; expressed neither approval nor disapproval of Diana's
withdrawal, and the latter, with a word of greeting to Wilding, went
ahead followed by Jerry, who had regained control by now of the beast
he bestrode. Wilding watched them until they turned the corner, then he
walked his mare slowly forward until he was alongside Ruth.

"Before I go," said he, "there is something I should like to say." His
dark eyes were sombre, his manner betrayed some hesitation.

The diffidence of his tone proved startling to her by virtue of its
unusualness. What might it portend, she wondered, and sought with grave
eyes to read his baffling countenance; and then a wild alarm swept into
her and shook her spirit in its grip; there was something of which until
this moment she had not thought--something connected with the fateful
matter of that letter. It had stood as a barrier between them, her
buckler, her sole defence against him. It had been to her what its
sting is to the bee--a thing which if once used in self-defence is
self-destructive. Not, indeed, that she had used it as her sting; it had
been forced from her by the machinations of Trenchard; but